


Dressing to Seduce

by themegalosaurus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, Manhandling, Men of Letters Bunker, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Schmoop, Wall Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-06 11:48:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5415800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/themegalosaurus/pseuds/themegalosaurus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>'Now, though? For some reason, Sam’s stripped down. He’s shed the shirts, all the layers that he uses to cocoon himself, and he’s leaning casual against the frame of the open doorway with only a tight navy v-necked tee stretched over his chest. Dressed like this, it’s evident how much progress Sam’s made in regaining the weight that he lost last year.'</i> </p><p>Fic for a prompt by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/BaronSamedi/pseuds/BaronSamedi">baronsamedi</a>, who wanted one Winchester seducing another by dressing in (shock horror) merely a SINGLE LAYER OF CLOTHING. Essentially it's super schmoopy bunker sex and not much more...!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dressing to Seduce

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BaronSamedi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BaronSamedi/gifts).



> This is my first piece for the Sunday Morning Porn Club - I'd planned something a little more high-concept but didn't have the time to get that done. So enjoy some straight-up PWP instead, thanks to Myri's excellent prompt and Becky's helpful beta.

For a miracle, Dean’s the one working hard on research this evening. They’re tracking something big and nasty that’s been tearing a strip through most of Texas, and he’s starting to think that it might be some kind of were-sabretooth tiger. A wabretooth. A wiger. He’s still working on the name. Either way it sounds pretty damn cool, and he’s found himself inadvertently drawn into the lore. Killing a were should be straightforward - a silver bullet to the heart - but he’s starting to wonder if this guy might need something a little more… stone age.

When Sam comes into the room, pauses in the doorway, Dean doesn’t even look up. “We got any flint arrowheads in any of those boxes down in the archive, Sammy?” he asks.

Sam is silent.

“Sam,” says Dean, gesturing impatiently with one hand, the other still busy scrolling through cryptozoology.net.

“Dean,” says Sam, then, throaty; and something about the timbre of his voice makes Dean look up.

Huh.

He’s pretty sure that when he saw Sam earlier - this morning, maybe? some time around noon? - his brother was wearing his usual at-home uniform; jeans sitting baggy over his skinny legs and a couple of heavy plaid shirts. That’s just… y’ know. Nice. Normal. Cool. But short of the usual reassuring once-over to check Sammy was safe and whole, Dean hadn’t really looked twice.

Now, though? For some reason, Sam’s stripped down. He’s shed the shirts, all the layers that he uses to cocoon himself, and he’s leaning casual against the frame of the open doorway with only a tight navy v-necked tee stretched over his chest. Dressed like this, it’s evident how much progress Sam’s made in regaining the weight that he lost last year. Dean doesn’t like to think too closely about the reason Sam got skinny; he still has nightmares occasionally about the night he came back to himself, Sam’s eyes so scared and his shoulder so wounded and his cheeks so horribly thin. So it’s good, on a kind of emotional level, to see Sam fill out; to see him looking like himself again.

It’s also good because Sam’s shoulders look fucking incredible right now. Like, really incredible and now Dean’s looking at them he’s forgetting about the stupid were tiger whatever it is and starting to think quite intensely about how much he enjoys having Sam hoik him up with those great strong biceps and slam him hard against the library’s rough brick wall.

“Sam?” he says, uncertain. It’s been a little while and besides that he doesn’t like to push Sam when he’s not in the mood, for a bunch of reasons that they’ve never needed to discuss.

The corner of Sam’s mouth edges out in a smile. He folds his arms, flexing. O-kay.

Dean means to say something cool at this juncture, something unimpressed. Instead,

“Sexy motherfucker,” he says.

Sam’s eyebrows shoot up, surprised, and he breaks out into a real grin, a good one, dimples and all. He takes a few swift steps over to Dean’s side, shuts the laptop; looks down at Dean and brushes the tip of his finger under Dean’s chin.

Dean might be getting a little hard already, alright.

“Can I,” he says, and then scoots forward and lifts the hem of Sam’s shirt where it hangs loose around his waist. Underneath, tan skin, taut muscle and a neat line of dark hair.

“Mmm,” Dean says, and licks it. Under his tongue, Sam’s abs contract.

Dean draws away, looks up at his brother. “You look hot in that T-shirt,” he says.

“Dude. You’re so easy,” says Sam.

Dean nods in agreement. He unbuckles Sam’s belt.

As soon as he gets his brother’s zipper halfway down, Dean knows that Sam was seriously out to get laid tonight. He’s wearing his good boxers; the expensive ones, branded big across the centre of the waistband and made of some kind of high-tech fabric that holds Sam’s spectacular junk just right.

“All this for me, Sammy?” Dean says. He’s kidding, kinda; but actually, the thought of Sam in his bedroom, dressing to seduce, is insanely hot. Sam put this shirt, this underwear, on for him. It’s like… it’s better than a girl in black lace and suspenders, okay? He looks up and Sam’s gazing down at him, smiling lazy and pleased, and Dean flushes warm all over with affection and lust.

He hooks his finger through Sam’s belt buckle and tugs, pulling the belt with a hiss-slap of leather round through the loops of Sam’s jeans. Sam’s hips are narrow. Without the belt, his pants drop easy down to land around his ankles, his bare toes just exposed. Dean doesn’t think that the bare feet were particularly part of Sam’s strategy - he always pads around like this when they’re not going out - but seeing his brother without his shoes gives Dean a secret thrill of domestic delight. It’s dumb as fuck. He just likes seeing Sam so cosy in their home, okay?

Before he can give himself away, Dean sits up, pulls Sam towards him with a hand on his ass, and sets his mouth over his brother’s Lycra-covered cock, massaging  through the fabric with his tongue. Sam gasps, short and quiet, and his hips jerk forward. His hand settles over the back of Dean’s head. “Mmm,” says Dean, satisfied noise, and pulls away to work the fancy boxers down over Sam’s thighs.

Exposed, Sam’s dick bobs hard and inviting right in front of Dean’s face. It doesn’t take much thinking to get his hand around the base and lick, wide and messy and wet, up the rest of the hot soft skin. He carries on like that a little while, working his tongue over the surface, tasting Sam and listening as his brother’s breath starts to stutter. For some reason, they don’t often do this. Sam’s pretty enthusiastic when it comes to giving head, likes to go down on Dean and then get vocal about moving on to the main event. Right now, though, Dean can see the advantage of this, can see how it’s good to be in so close, so completely in control.

Time to move it up a gear, maybe. He drops his right hand to cup Sam’s balls, thumbing slow and deliberate across them, and brings up his left to grip Sam’s cock in its stead, dragging a couple firm strokes up away from his brother and towards himself. He sinks his mouth down over the head, feels the beat of Sam’s vein against his tongue.

“Christ,” Sam says, choked, and Dean goes for it, taking Sam as deep as he dares, steady in and out with his hand taking care of what his mouth can’t reach. It’s uncomfortable, kind of, maybe hard to remember to breathe; but he finds a rhythm and he can hear the noises Sam’s making above him; and Sam dressed up special today just to make Dean horny, okay, so the least he can do is to show his brother just how effectively that worked.

Dean’s half-lost in it when Sam breathes in, drawn out and ragged, and steps back on his heel away from Dean’s open mouth. A long thin thread of spit detaches itself from the head of his cock and falls down damp against Dean’s chin.

“Wait,” Sam says. “Jesus, Dean. I.”

Dean’s disoriented, disappointed even, but then Sam’s tugging at his shoulder, pulling him upright. His fingers work quick in the buttons of Dean’s shirt.

“Come on,” Sam says. “It’s just - it’s good, that was good - it’s just that I wanna fuck you. Dean, come on.”

Dean shivers pleasurably and gets with the program, more or less; starts working up from the bottom as Sam’s working down, and when they meet in the middle shrugs out of his plaid and hauls his T-shirt quickly over his head.

“Pants,” Sam says, and Dean shucks them down, steps out of them as Sam’s stepping out of his.

“Now,” says Sam, and his hands are on Dean’s chest and back, turning him and pushing him down over the table. Dean goes down in double-quick time, spreads his legs wide and wiggles his ass. Sam gives him a quick smart slap for his troubles.

“Kinky,” Dean says.

“Sure,” says Sam, from somewhere low down behind Dean’s knees. Dean thinks for a second he’s gonna get eaten out (which, okay); but actually Sam’s just rummaging in his jeans, and he straightens up a second later and tears open a packet of lube. Even the slippery-slick sound of it on his hands as he warms his fingers is enough to turn Dean on, Pavlovian response from a thousand just-befores.

Sam rests his left hand sticky on Dean’s hip. “Ready?” he says, and presses the tip of his finger inside, working in careful and steady as Dean breathes against the wood of the desk.

“Yeah,” Dean tells him. “Yeah, Sammy, that’s good.”

Sam makes a happy kind of humming noise and slides a second finger in beside the first, working Dean open careful and quick. He bends over, drops a kiss at the base of Dean’s spine. Dean shivers; but maybe that’s the tickle of Sam’s hair on his back.

A third finger, and Sam’s dragging them in and out, now, with a spread on the in-stroke. Dean presses his fingertips hard into the table, pushes back against Sam’s hand. He’s past thinking now, really, just knows that he wants to feel Sam inside him and all over, close as he can.

Finally, “Right,” says Sam, and slides his palm under Dean’s chest to pull him upright again. Dean’s so happy and aroused that his muscles have gone to spaghetti, so he kind of stumbles a little as he comes back up. Sam steadies him with a muscular forearm tight over his chest. “‘Kay?” he says. He leans forward and kisses Dean again, at the side of his mouth; turns him, with a hand on his bicep, and nudges him back against the table, so that the hard line of its top digs into the back of Dean’s thighs.

Oh, Dean thinks.

Sam’s pressing firm against his chest, trying to push him backward flat onto the table; but something in Dean’s expression must give him away, because Sam stops and looks at him.

“What?” he says.

Dean pouts, embarrassed. Sex is better when it just _happens_ right. “I was just thinking about, uh.”

Sam face shifts, out of anxiety and into amusement. “Go on.”

Dean waves his hand, indicates the wide expanse of Sam’s chest. His fingers brush against the swell of Sam’s arm. “I thought maybe you might. We might. You know, with all the muscles and the… you’re kind of… big again,” he finishes lamely. “And so.”

“Yeah?” says Sam, and he steps up close to stand between Dean’s spread legs. “You like that, huh?”

“You know I do,” says Dean, blushing furiously.

Sam growls low in his throat, slips his hands round outside and underneath Dean’s thighs, and lifts him bodily off the table. Instinctive, Dean grips tight with his legs, crosses his arms over the back of Sam’s neck. “Fuck,” he says.

Sam chuckles, and his chest vibrates against Dean’s where they’re pressed tight together. “That’s the general idea.” His arms are trembling - Dean isn’t exactly light - but he doesn’t waver, just sets his mouth, tugs Dean up to settle more firmly on his hips, and carries him in long strides across the room, slamming hard into the wall.

“Like this?” he says.

Dean’s not sure he can actually talk any more. He might have forgotten how, the words shaken out of him by the impact of the collision and the sight of Sam’s spectacular muscles straining under his weight. “Guh,” he says, trying to nod; steadying himself with the toes of his left foot and angling his hips against Sam’s crotch. Sam grins again, pleased with himself. He lifts Dean’s right leg, settles it high around his hip, and grips his left hand firm and supportive under Dean’s ass.

“Okay,” he says, “hold on;” lines himself up and sinks inside. It’s enough to drive the breath out of Dean’s lungs, and Sam gives it a moment, watching serious until Dean inhales, exhales, and starts to relax. Then he lifts Dean’s left leg off the ground again and presses forward, so Dean’s jammed up between the brick wall behind him and the great warm wall of brother in front, his thighs braced over Sam’s and his feet tucked around the back of Sam’s knees. It’s exactly what he wanted: Sam so close up against him, pink with effort, all of his strength directed into this, at Dean.

Dean doesn’t say any of this, just leans forward and bites into Sam’s collarbone, hard. Sam gasps. He loves being bitten. Dean loves to take advantage of it.

Sam begins to move. He can’t get a huge amount of motion going, like this, but Dean rests his arms over Sam’s shoulders and grips hard with his thighs, rolls his hips, and it’s enough to feel pretty fucking good. Sam’s pressed up tight against him everywhere, right here, safe and warm and solid and alive. Judging by Sam’s unfocused expression, it’s also working pretty well for him. It’s Dean’s favourite sight: Sam Winchester, world’s biggest overthinker, so turned on he can’t see straight, his face blissful and open and sweet.

“Yeah,” Dean says, “beautiful,” and Sam blinks awake, smiles wickedly and starts pounding in earnest. Dean can’t do much, just has to cling on and go along for the ride; has to take it at Sam’s pace and let it all build slow, everything, the tug of Sam’s cock at his rim and the brush of his own against Sam’s stomach; the sight of Sam and the sweet sweaty smell of him and God still just the thought that Sam _planned_ this for them tonight, at home.

“Fu-u-u-u-uck,” Dean says, juddery. The bricks are scraping sore across the skin of his back and Sam’s so deep inside him he can feel it in his stomach. “Come on,” he says “fuck, Sammy, come on.”

“Yeah,” says Sam. He’s sweating, now, and his hair is stuck in damp strands over his forehead. He leans forward, leans in close so his breath is hot across Dean’s face. “Love you,” he says. He kisses Dean on the mouth and Dean opens up for him, tongue sliding easy over Sam’s. Then he feels Sam’s fingers fumbling between them, Sam’s hand settling around his cock, and he can’t stop the helpless sound he makes, moaning into Sam’s mouth.

“I’ve got you,” Sam says; starts jerking him fast, still moving steady up against him, his thighs strong under Dean’s and his other hand on Dean’s waist. It doesn’t take much, not after this kind of build up; and it’s probably less than a minute before Dean comes, slamming his head back hard against the wall. His come gets everywhere, Sam’s stomach and chest and arm, but Sam doesn’t say anything, just nods a couple times and moves in closer, hips hitching, fingers digging in tight.

“Yeah,” Dean says, “Yeah, go for it Sammy,” and Sam grunts, picks him up again properly almost off the wall, so just his shoulders are resting against it, and thrusts hard up into him, panting heavy on each movement. Dean’s not sure that even his He-Man brother can keep up this position for long; but it takes only three thrusts, four, before Sam’s effortful noises turn into a garbled “Oh fuck yeah,” and he stills, every line of his body trembling-taut.

When Sam relaxes it’s total, immediate, and Dean has to catch at the wall with his hands to stop himself falling. “Careful!” he squeaks, and Sam’s apologising but he’s in this dopey post-sex haze so it really takes Dean to sort things out, negotiate the both of them safely down onto the floor. He’s gonna get up and get a washcloth in a minute, he is, but just for a moment he lets Sam sprawl there on the hard wood flooring all flushed and delightful, grinning up at him so smug about the success of his evening.

“You love it when I wear tight shirts,” Sam says.

“Whatever,” says Dean, “fucking Hulk man,” and runs an appreciative hand over Sam’s chest.

“It’s all for you, baby,” says Sam, and starts laughing. Dean rolls his eyes. He turns to go get a cloth but Sam says “hey,” tugs himself upright with a hand on Dean’s shoulder and runs his fingers over Dean’s back. “You’re bleeding.”

Dean gestures at the wall and Sam makes a small unhappy noise.

“It’s fine,” Dean says. “I liked it.”

“Hmm,” says Sam. He starts to kiss over the sore places on Dean’s back.

“You’re a massive sap, you know that?” Dean says. He shifts back to let Sam get a better angle. “Right there,” he says. “No - yeah - right there.”

**Author's Note:**

> Comments ALWAYS welcome! Rebloggable post on my Tumblr, [here](http://themegalosaurus.tumblr.com/post/135106308513/dressing-to-seduce).


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